


A Game of Thrones: Fur & Scales (WIP)

by The_Letter_T



Category: Game of Thrones (All Media Types), Game of Thrones (HBO), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternative Outcomes/Original Storyline, Blended Seasons, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Copyright Not Intended, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, Developing Serious Relationship, Dragons, Dragonstone, Exploring Sexuality, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Female Homosexuality, Friendship, Original Stark Character, Original lesbian character, The seven kingdoms, Twin sister, Westeros, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Letter_T/pseuds/The_Letter_T
Summary: The twin sister of Sansa Stark is the light of the North. She is beautiful, fierce, gifted in her needlework as with a sword. But there is nothing she does better than to keep secrets. And it is one particular secret she keeps close to her chest. It takes her losing a lover, losing family and a summons off a foreign queen to make her realise that happiness is so often fleeting that it should never be surpassed. Not even for the benefit of others, and certainly not at the suffering of oneself.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Margaery Tyrell/Original Female Character, daenerys Targaryen/original female character
Kudos: 17





	A Game of Thrones: Fur & Scales (WIP)

_The wolf and the rose shared the night,_

_Their faces upturned to the moon,_

_Mothwing humming to the drumbeat of their hearts,_

_And in the privy silence between breaths,_

_The gentle perfume soothed the wild in her eyes._

The hulk dipped back and forth through cresting spume that pummeled the bow of the stocky ship and encrusted the sail in fine salt crystals. When the sun finally broke through the turbulent grey clouds, the great direwolf upon the mainsail shimmered and breathed, as if summoned to life by the rare warmth. Timid shoals of fish appeared as ribbons of silver in the inky green depths, darting back and forth beneath the shadow of _The Sea Wolf._ You watched them from the prow, standing still and strong even though the wind buffeted against your furs and threatened to push you back.   
  
The Starks had never been known for their seamanship. But _The Sea Wolf_ was proving herself to be a fine ship, as she ploughed through the choppy seas. Your brother Robb had ordered the construction of a fleet to consolidate dominance in the Northern waters. The rebellion had long since ended and the ship had never seen battle. But it stood as a fine example of Stark determination and their aptitude. 

"M'lady." Ser Alleyn, The Sword of the Winter, was an old and bitter knight who had served under your father for many years. He was as brusque and emotionless as the winter itself, but his swordsmanship was precise. He accompanied you at the command of Sansa, Lady of the North. Your sister was as proud and noble as any strong lady of the tales and songs, but there was an acidity dwelling within her eyes which troubled you. You had seen that coolness in the faces of women before; both noble and baseborn, all who shared stories of their terror at the mercy of unkind monsters. What grievous horrors must she have witnessed at King's Landing? What terrible injustices had befallen her? "I fear the weather is to take a turn. A storm is nye upon us and I should not want harm to come to you. Might I see you returned to your cabin?" 

You looked up at the sky as the wind blew auburn tresses across your face. It boiled as the sea heaved and grew dark. You could no longer make out the fish you had been quietly watching, and the emerald iridescence of the waves had all but gone. You turned to the withered old knight and nodded your acceptance. Ser Alleyn stood aside as you swept past him, and you heard his heavy limp as he followed close behind. "How long before we make Dragonstone?" You asked him. 

"The Captain says we are but two leagues from port now m'lady. Should you wish to rest, I shall wake you when we arrive." He offered in the dutiful way that men sworn to honor always do. They are but empty words. Ser Alleyn has no love left in him; not since his wife succumbed to fever during the last winter. But you accept the words nonetheless. Ser Alleyn may be cold, but he is loyal. His hand rests on the pommel of his longsword as he comes to a halt outside your door. You cannot help but look at him; to observe the staunch, unsmiling face of the Northman and see your own reflection in his chill gaze. 

Ser Alleyn grimaces as he feels the ship rock beneath his feet. The wind had picked up outside, and the crew had started back and forth upon the decks, furling the sails, and checking the knots to keep them from breaking free. You were surprised when Ser Alleyn turned his attention to you. “M’lady, I might be a sour old man wanting naught from the world but to see my lady wife again, but I am a sworn knight. And by the oath I swore before your lord father, and the command of your sister, the Lady Sansa, I must heed you a warning.”

“What is it Ser Alleyn?” You ask. “Speak freely ser knight.”

“You know the history of the Targaryens m’lady, of The Mad King and his family. The dragon is a fierce and unpredictable beast, and I tell ye no lies, I don’t trust a Targaryen. I never have since they murdered Brandon Stark on the steps of the Iron Throne.” His eyes were shrewd and reminiscent. You could not even begin to imagine what he had seen during his years as a young squire, nor comprehended the rivers of blood that had flowed over his hands as he swung his blade. And you would be sure as not to ever ask him. “I trust you do not think ill of me for feeling this way m’lady?”

“No Ser Alleyn. I thank you for your concern, and I trust that you will honor me with your protection as my dear sister wished.” The old knight bowed stiffly. Once you had dismissed him, you entered your cabin.

Accommodation on _The Sea Wolf_ was a far cry from your room back in Winterfell. The cabin was small and dark with nothing but oil lamps to offer light and thick furs to keep the draughts at bay. But it was the only place onboard the ship that offered you any privacy. What little belongings you had chosen for the journey were stacked in a chest at the foot of the four poster bed. You rested a moment on the edge of the bed, reaching under the pillows for the scroll of paper you kept there.   
  
It was a letter from Jon. A raven had come from Castle Black before _The Sea Wolf_ had left for Dragonstone. Ser Alleyn had delivered the letter to you himself. He was distrusting of the crew and the price of gossip that stood on the ship. And he was steadfast in his manner to never ask after the words written within. You read it now. Slowly. Savoring every word. 

_My dear Kara,_

_Forgive me for not asking after you, for I fear that there is naught but grave caution that I enclose in this letter. As we speak a raven is returning to your sister, that she may summon the banners to Winterfell._

_The Others are real. Castle Black has raised its defences. We are but six-hundred fighting men.  
_

_Remember our words. Never forget them as I may never forget you.  
  
I pray that I might live to see you again. _

_With Fondness,_

_Jon_

The last time you had seen Jon had been the day you had left Winterfell; he for The Wall alongside your uncle, Benjen Stark, and you to Highgarden alongside the company of men your lord father had commanded for you. He and your sisters, Arya and Sansa, had made for King's Landing in the company of King Robert Baratheon. You had demanded you ride with your men to the Reach. You had always felt most at home astride your palfrey, Windsmoke, and your heart twinged at the thought of leaving her behind.   
  
"I may be seen as a lady Lord Father," You had told him, as he had brought news of your betrothal to Ser Loras Tyrell. "But I am a Stark of Winterfell. A true Northern woman should appear no less as strong and capable as the men who protect her." He had smiled at your determination and had not been able to refuse. 

"I wish that you were to accompany us to King's Landing." He had admitted, his face suddenly solemn. "But a bond of trust must be established with the strong Southern houses if we are to survive. Your sister Sansa is to be wed to Prince Joffrey when they come of age. But believe me that this gives me little joy. For winter is coming." 

"Do not fret Father." You had urged him, though your heart ached to heed him the truth of it. "I trust that Ser Loras Tyrell shall treat me fairly." It was all you could give him to sooth the troubles he carried. The secret you kept was but a trivial concern against the vast weight of matters, resting on the shoulders of the high lord of Winterfell. You could not bring yourself to cause him any further discomfort. So you had embraced him and declared obedience. 

That had been the last time you had ever seen your father.   
  
You sat a moment in the darkness of your cabin, allowing your body to sway with the motion of the ship. It frightened you that you scarcely recalled what Ned Stark looked like. You only remembered his voice - as hard and strong as the brisk winds that burned the scrubby grassland with frost. He was a true man of the North, and your mother, a fair lady of Riverrun. Where his strength and focus had imbued your heart with steely determination and courage, the softness and beauty of Lady Catelyn Tully had balanced it. 

That equilibrium existed between you and your twin sister, Sansa, in your beauty and respect for one another. But where she was sweet and innocent and every part a lady of Winterfell, you; Kara Stark, had found a place among men. It had partly been thanks to Jon; you had always had a special bond with your lord father's bastard. Jon had been nothing but kind to you and to Arya. He had taught you how to fight with a sword and shield, how to fire a bow, and all under the cover of night when the rest of Winterfell had been sleeping. In return, you had always afforded him your ear and listened patiently to his worries. Or simply provided him with company when he had been barred from feasts.  
  
"You should be sat with your father and lady mother." He would always say when you slipped through the snow to join him. Behind you, the distant sounds of merriment permeated through the walls into the cold night air. "It is improper for a true lady of Winterfell to be seen in the company of a bastard."  
  
You would scoff and smile at him. "I'm not a true lady." You said with a wink. He would laugh at that, his black curls dancing with mirth. But you knew that he never truly understood those words. Nor would you enlighten him for you feared the outcome of such a truth. So in your silence you spared him. 

You had missed him the most. But your heartache had slowly faded upon your arrival in Highgarden. The Tyrells had never been particularly fond of your family, and they had never made a show of polite pretence either. But, The Queen of Thorns had confessed surprise when you had entered the Great Hall. You had decided upon your finest dress. It was of silver silk that flowed out behind you as you walked. You still wore the furs that had protected you from the harsh Northern winds, but they surely seemed out of place in the temperate climes of the Reach.   
  
"Alas I must profess, had your family produced such fine stock in the past, perhaps our houses would have nurtured amiability sooner." She sniffed deprecatingly, observing you over the thin bridge of her nose. Her eye was approving. You were tall and elegant with long auburn hair and eyes as bright as sapphires. You smiled deferentially. You had been introduced to your betrothed.   
  
Ser Loras Tyrell was a knight from the songs and stories; he was fair, beautiful and gleamed in the finest armor you had ever seen. You thought of Sansa and how she had oftentimes swooned over the thought of the Knight of Flowers. You considered it would have been more suitable had Lord Stark promised Sansa to Loras. You were careful not to portray your disinterest in the man that was to become your lord husband. As magnificent as he was, Loras was arrogant. He too was working too hard to present himself in the ways expected of a highborn lord, bowing and kissing your hand and speaking sweet words to you, but there was no interest in his blue eyes, and as soon as his grandmother had departed from the Great Hall, he left you.   
  
The only one who stayed was his sister, Margaery.   
  
She stepped down to meet you, walking fluidly in a low cut blue dress that left little to the imagination. Her blue eyes were quick, her chestnut hair worn long and loose. 

"Forgive my brother for his trespasses. He is a very...distracted man." She begged for your pardon. Her perfume was of roses, her smile as sweet as any flower that grew in the grounds of Highgarden. 

"Maybe it is _me_ my lady," you suggested, accepting her silent query to join her as she walked from the hall into the foreign warmth of the Reach. "I have spent so many years in the chill of the North that mayhaps I have overlooked the softer expressions of the Southern lady." 

Margaery chuckled and shook her head so that her wavy hair bounced against her shoulders. "Oh pray, please call me Margaery. And no, it is not you Lady Stark. You are as fair and ravashing as any lady I have seen in this court. My brother has _other things_ on his mind." She blushed prettily as she walked with you. 

"Is there another he has set his heart upon?" You asked.   
  
Margaery paused, turning to you. She gave you a curious look that you could not fully comprehend. "Does it have to be another lady necessarily?" She quipped. Her sultry eyebrows hitched but for the briefest moment, before she swept ahead of you once more. 

The Queen of Thorns had been most pleased to see you befriend Margaery over the months at Highgarden. She had rarely voiced any displeasure if only to remark upon the absence of her grandson from his betrothed. Margaery had stifled a giggle and, having finally understood the reason for the princess's riddles, you shared a secret smile.   
  
"That boy is as free-spirited as the Starks are indomitable." She would say, picking at a lemon cake. "I have never been able to keep him from his games."   
  
"Poking other men is what my dear Loras does, Grandmother." Margaery replied, fluttering her eyelashes demurely, and offering you a fleeting smile when she knew Olenna wasn't watching. 

"Indeed," The Queen of Thorns responded, seemingly unaware of the stipulation. "My son affords him too much patience and money for his own good. The only thing we agree upon is that Loras' many victories have brought great honor to this house." 

When you had been dismissed by Olenna, Margaery had waited for the door to close behind you before she grabbed your hand. You knew where she was taking you. She had shown you it not long after you had arrived in Highgarden. There was a secret spot where Maragery knew the servants never went; where prying eyes never reached. It was there that you ran, breathless and excited, through a concealed arch in a wall of bright roses. It was shady and cool beneath the rambling plants and your gleeful noise was muffled by the foliage.   
  
It was only when you had slipped under the curtain of perfumed flowers and strong, immovable stone that she roused herself to kiss you. Her lips were sweet and gentle, but her kisses had become more urgent and precise in their manipulations of your mouth. You had blushed prettily and stumbled over your manners in such an endearing way she had laughed until she could scarcely breathe. When she had finally managed to stop, she had held your hands gently.

“Why do you trouble yourself so?” She had asked jovially, her eyes sparkling. “Am I wrong to have kissed you, Lady Stark? Do you not share in the same longings of the heart as I do?” She knew that you did. And she liked to tease you about it endlessly. 

Your uncertain silence and demure expression had coaxed her to continue. “There is nothing wrong with the love between woman and woman. Not in Highgarden. We are a free people here. Whatever your fears may have been in Winterfell, my dear Kara, they are not necessary here.”

Had you spoken of your particular interests to anybody in the North, there would have been few to understand. Your Lord father had been groomed by King Robert upon his visit to Winterfell. They were now of a mind to wed Sansa to Joffrey. You had been chosen for Loras Tyrell. The Tyrells had commanded the Reach for nye on a century and Robert had agreed that a betrothal to Mace's son would sweeten the relations between all houses. You had not remarked upon the match, although Sansa had fallen completely in love with the idea of becoming a queen. She had taken your indifference almost to insult.

“Ser Loras Tyrell is the most glorious man in all the realms!” She exclaimed, misinterpreting your expression to be one of boredom. "The Knight of the Flowers. You would become The Lady of the Flowers. How perfect." She had said with a laugh as she had spun around in a new dress she had made, her hair like smoldering embers around her shoulders.

So it had come to pass that you had relished in a few blissful months in Highgarden. The subtle kisses and flirtations had climaxed into an affair as rampant as the flowers that climbed the castle walls. In the end it had not mattered who had seen you, and nobody cared to say anything against it. Even Olenna turned a blind eye to Margaery's fondness for you. 

That was until she had ordered Margaery to accompany her to King's Landing.  
  
"It would appear that the betrothal of Sansa Stark to King Joffrey no longer stands. I trust you would make a fitting match for the new Baratheon king." She said, the cunning in her eyes as hot as the flush in Margaery's cheeks.   
  
"But Grandmother, what of Lady Stark?"   
  
"To which do you refer? I assume it to be of Lady Kara? She is yet to wed Loras." The smile on the edge of her thin lips was one of knowing. She observed the saddened eyes of her granddaughter but made no effort to comfort her. "Queens cannot marry queens." She had said, and that had been that.  
  


TBC


End file.
